5 Times Mrs Hudson Didn't Knock and 1 Time She Did
by bobbirose
Summary: 5 1 Things What follows are the reasons why Mrs. Hudson prefaces her entrance with a "yoohoo! Boys!"


**One**

Mrs. Hudson probably would have gotten the concept of knocking a lot faster if they hadn't started with something as innocent as the dancing.

She assumed, of course, that Sherlock was being his usual pompous virtuoso self and playing his violin as loudly as possible to try and tell _someone, anyone_ that he was bored. Or upset. Or stumped. Or craving Chinese food.

_Or dying_, Mrs. Hudson thought as she made her way up the stairs with a tray of biscuits-John's favorite-and a cuppa for each of them. No, she didn't suppose Sherlock would distinguish between a culinary craving and his vital organs failing him. In either case, they would all want to snatch that violin away from him and through it out the window as carefully played Chopin turned into deafening, melodramatic Beethoven.

Balancing the tray of treats on her left hand, she turned the doorknob of 221B and stepped into the flat. She was all prepared to scold Sherlock for being so disruptive and surprised that John hadn't apprehended him yet, except Sherlock wasn't playing the violin and John certainly wasn't ignoring him.

In fact, he was pressed quite firmly against the taller man, their fingers intertwined and held up, Sherlock's other hand on the small of John's back-and they were _dancing_, surely that was it, surely that was why the violin was coming from a speaker system in the back of the flat, turned up almost all the way to drown out Sherlock's methodical counting (_1_, 2, 3, _1,_ 2, 3-the first beat gets the emphasis, John, 2, 3) and John's steady stream of curses as he stumbled over both his own and Sherlock's feet (_shit_, I can't-Sherlock, I'm not worrying about fucking _emphasis _when I can't even-OW, _fuck_).

It was becoming increasingly funnier with every second that neither of them noticed their landlady's presence, and it wasn't until a breathless giggle escaped her lips that they whipped around, Sherlock's dressing gown swirling around his knees as he froze at the sight of her, hand still held about shoulder high, and John simply fell over.

"That was nice," she said mildly, smiling pleasantly at the two of them and set down the tray of food and tea carefully on a nearby table.

Sherlock scoffed, and John's face flushed.

"I'll just leave you two alone," she announced, and John hurried to follow her as she retreated from the flat.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called after her, slightly desperately.

"Yes dear?"

"Sherlock was...that wasn't...he insisted, said it was important..." John stammered, trailing off helplessly.

She smiled at him knowingly, making him sigh with resignation.

"Look, just...knock, okay?"

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied absently, wondering what on earth Mrs. Turner would make of all this.

**Two**

Mrs. Hudson still promises John that she absolutely would have knocked if it hadn't been for that horrid Paula Dean woman on the TV in her kitchen.

Ever since the death of the wonderful Connie Prince, poor Mrs. Hudson had been scouting for a new show to watch. After exhausting British makeup and cooking shows, searching for the second coming of Prince, she had given up and turned to the Americans. For a while she had been trying to watch that Tyra girl, and Ellen was lovely, but if she wanted to hear self-assured women talk for an hour she could just call her sister. And so she had hesitantly flipped the channel to Paula Dean's cooking show, if for no other reason than to soak in American Southern culture.

It went splendidly for a week; Paula was remarkably similar to Connie if you excused the accent. Connie's botox was Paula's butter, and with her new knowledge Mrs. Hudson made delicious chicken for the boys one Sunday night (minus the excess "budder and awl"), thinking that finally America had put out something worth watching.

Indeed, it wasn't until Miss Dean made her _political_ views quite clear that the spell was broken; leading to Mrs. Hudson angrily switching off her television and sitting back in her chair, listening to the muted sounds of Sherlock's violin.

Mrs. Hudson still vehemently blames Paula Dean for the whole encounter, and Sherlock maintains it had all fallen apart because of Lestrade's prying.

The phone rings in 221A, and Mrs. Hudson bustles to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hi, um, this is Mrs. Hudson, right?"

"That wouldn't happen to be Gregory Lestrade, now would it?"

"Ah, yes it is, actually."

"Oh, dear, how are you? What prompted you to call?"

"Well, Sherlock isn't answering his texts."

"Did you try calling John?"

"Yes, but his phone seems to be off."

"I'll go check on them. Can't have them missing any murders, now can we?"

"No indeed. Thanks."

"No problem, dear."

Mrs Hudson put the phone down, shaking her head. What were her boys up to now?

Marching determinedly up the stairs to 221B, knocking was the farthest thing from Mrs. Hudson's mind. She was more focused on the violin. It seemed to be the same song that was blasting from the stereo two weeks ago, when Mrs. Hudson walked in on them dancing.

She turned the doorknob.

_Dancing_...

She opened the door.

_"Just...knock, okay?"_

"Oh!"

The landlady in Mrs. Hudson should have immediately noticed the fire hazard that were the dozens of lit candles illuminating the entire flat in a warm, romantic glow. Scented candles, too, making her head swim pleasantly, were perched precariously on top of stacks of books (_flammable _books, honestly!), on the arms of chairs and even littering the hardwood floor. However, an abundance of scented candles were the least of your worries when you were Sherlock Holmes's landlady. Besides, Mrs. Hudson was much more distracted by the sight that awaited her in the middle of the flat.

A sort of makeshift massage table was set up and covered with a white bed sheet, on top of which laid a very nearly comatose John Watson, bare body covered by yet another thin white bed sheet. Above John, standing up in black trousers and his favorite eggplant shirt, was a very focused Sherlock Holmes, hands covered in what Mrs. Hudson hoped very much was massage oil (Mrs. Turner would have a field day) and rubbing John's exposed back.

John seemed completely oblivious to his surroundings, much less Mrs. Hudson's feeble "oh!", but Sherlock's head snapped up and his hands froze, causing John's eyes to flutter open. They widened quickly when he saw Mrs. Hudson standing there, and he shot up immediately, knocking Sherlock's hands off of his back and causing the sheet to pool down by his hips.

She let out a little gasp and turned away, causing John to snatch the sheet and wrap it tightly around himself, much like the way Sherlock was so prone to doing.

"Christ, Mrs-Sherlock, help me off-no, wait!" he was saying, for Mrs. Hudson had grinned at them both before turning away, reveling in the phone call she was about to make to Lestrade.

"Knock!" cried John, as the door to 221B swung shut behind her.

**Three**

Mrs. Hudson would never apologize for the third time.

"I'm never going to wait to _knock _if I think you're in danger," she would say, stubbornly holding her ground as John and Sherlock ranted on about "privacy" and what not.

She _had_ thought they were in danger the third time-and with good reason, too. What person just shrugs and makes tea when they hear _gunshots_ coming from your tenets' flat?

"Someone who lives with Sherlock," John would grumble when he thought she couldn't hear him. And it was true, she supposed, living with Sherlock one became (begrudgingly) accustomed to gunshots and small explosions and things of the like, but one also became (downright unwillingly) accustomed to your tenet having mortal (deadly) enemies that try to kill him on a fairly regular basis.

So she had hurried upstairs, as fast as her damned hip would allow, if for no other reason than to yell at Sherlock for putting holes in her walls _again_.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she cried as she flung the door wide open, to find (almost unsurprisingly at this point) John perched very still on Sherlock's lap, looking, paralyzed, into Sherlock's face as he looked just as paralyzingly back. Their hands were frozen on the gun that they both held absently above Sherlock's head, as if they'd forgotten it was there.

"Had a little domestic, then?" she joked weakly.

"Maybe," Sherlock replied, only a little flushed and immediately at ease once more.

They both glanced at John, who was shocked at Sherlock and shocked at himself and obviously confused and his eyes were lit up with some sort of soldierly determination.

_And that's so like him, _Mrs. Hudson thought as John pushed her towards the door ("Knock, Mrs. Hudson").

So like the soldier in him to charge blindly into a battlefield with guns ablaze, only half-aware about why he was firing.

But fire he did.

And Mrs. Hudson found that ever so amusing (promising).

**Four**

John and Sherlock technically weren't exactly _aware_ of the fourth time.

Mrs. Hudson needed to borrow some sugar for her evening tea, just before her evening soother, and right after her evening whiskey, over which Sherlock-under blood oath-is sworn to secrecy. John had forgotten to pick her up some at Tesco when last he went, and she hadn't been on her own since. She could hear the muted sounds of the TV on upstairs, but nothing else, so she figured the boys must be relatively at peace (and hopefully decent).

So she went upstairs and opened the door-_knocking,_ John, honestly, she only needed sugar-and...well, the boys were decent.

"Oh, _Sherlock_," she whispered, despite herself, and walked towards the couch.

John and Sherlock were both fast asleep, curled up on the sofa like they were five years old, the bluish glow from some long forgotten BBC program illuminating their vulnerable frames. Sherlock's long spidery legs were wrapped insistently around John, his arms a complement to the complex structure of limbs the two of them had going. John's own arms were winded loosely around Sherlock's waist, one hand resting lovingly on his stomach. An alabaster cheek was pressed against John's sandy hair, and dark curls framed a face that both made Mrs. Hudson's heart soar and break at the same time.

For she saw the way Sherlock clung to John like he was his only source of life, long pale fingers wrapped around a horrid cable knit jumper like the lint from the sleeves were strengthening his blood flow, and she saw the way his face was so soft against John's, the hard mask forgotten-no, forcefully (_helplessly_) thrown aside in the presence of John Watson, the thoroughly unassuming ex soldier with a fondness for tea without milk.

_Don't you dare break him, John Watson._

**Five**

The fifth time was actually a lot like the third, and even though she never apologized for that either, it was what made Mrs. Hudson _finally_ decide to knock on the door prior to entry.

It had been a slow day, John and Sherlock both out on some case, somewhere, chasing down people in a chemical warehouse or something (according to John's hurried texts regarding an ETA) and Mrs. Hudson was lazily stirring some sugar (she had managed to get some more) into a lukewarm cup of decaf green tea. The TV in her kitchen was turned up as loud as it could go to drown out the incessant drone of the heat wave outside, so Stacy and Clinton's _What Not To Wear_ was blasting throughout the tiled room.

As a result, she couldn't exactly hear John and Sherlock's moaning even over the traditional "AND WE'RE FROM TLC'S WHAT NOT TO WEAR" coming just outside the door into the 221 complex. She jumped at the sudden sound of a slam, and looked to see the door fly open and Sherlock and John bursting through, hissing and groaning as though in pain, Sherlock holding his arm and John clutching his face.

"Sherlock! John! What's happened?" Mrs. Hudson cried, bustling towards them, but they paid her no mind and sprinted up the stairs, slamming the door to 221B behind them. Mrs. Hudson tsked and closed the main front door carefully.

It wasn't entirely uncommon for the boys to come home sporting some kind of minor injury; a cut from a fist on the cheek or a bruise on the knee from a fall, but the degree of this incident worried Mrs. Hudson.

She figured she'd better go and check up on them; see if she needed to call an ambulance or anything of the like.

_Or perhaps not_, she thought, sitting abruptly back down. _Those boys do need their privacy._

Besides, John would take them to the hospital if anything really needed doing, and John was a doctor himself so he could at least take care of Sherlock if Sherlock refused to go.

_Unless Sherlock refused_ _John_, a nasty voice in the back of her mind said. _Check on them_.

"I'd best go see if they need anything," she muttered to herself and hurried upstairs.

And of _course_ they were naked.

And soaking wet, dear Lord!

"Oh!"

"MRS. HUDSON!"

_Slam!_

"John, wait!-"

"Mrs. Hudson-Sherlock was-we were-we had some chemical burns, and-_please, please_ knock!"

"Of course, dear. Of course." she replied, eyes wide and hand over her heart.

And by the saints did she mean it.

**Plus One**

Mrs. Hudson had done the shopping for both herself and for her boys upstairs for the first time in weeks and she felt wickedly proud of herself. Shopping for Sherlock was never an easy task in and of itself-but add in her own dietary restrictions and John's surprisingly picky affinities towards certain brand names and shopping becomes an Olympic Sport.

Setting down the bags on the table, she identified her items and sorted them out, and hoisted the remaining three bags up off of the table to carry upstairs.  
She was a surprisingly strong woman, all things considered, and five bags of groceries, while slightly uncomfortable, proved no difficult task. It would be managing the knocking (she _would _remember this time) and the three bags that would be the challenge.

She trooped up the stairs and decided to set one down on the staircase to free her right hand.

_Knock knock._

No response.

Mrs. Hudson leaned in a bit, pressing her ear a bit closer to the door. She could hear Sherlock's voice, muted mutterings she couldn't exactly make out.

She knocked again, but she still got no reply.

_How indecent could they be?_

She opened the door.

_Oh. Very._

The indistinct one-way conversation, now Mrs. Hudson had clearer audio-was mainly made up of "Oh, _John_" and "_Dear god, _don't stop" and they were both so caught up in their...activities that neither of them noticed her.

_Well, can you blame them_, she thought as she stood still, frozen in place, watching.

They were both naked, _again_, but this time positioned on the couch and free of (harmful) chemicals. Sherlock was spread out beneath John, who was on his knees above him, Sherlock long enough to where his head was thrown back over the arm of the sofa, neck exposed and dark curls tumbling everywhere. His long white (bare!) legs were each hooked on to one of John's shoulders and his fingers in the doctor's short (but getting longer, the look seemed to young him down a bit) hair. John, meanwhile, was keeping a firm hold on Sherlock's hips as he sucked quite enthusiastically on Sherlock's cock (good _heavens_).

Neither of them noticed until Sherlock gasped out: "John! John, I'm-oh god!" and sat up, his eyes flying open as he spilled out into John's mouth, simultaneously spotting Mrs. Hudson stock still, holding bags of groceries.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, at a quite unfortunate time, for he was released from John's mouth with a faint pop and John stared disbelievingly at his partner. "_What?_" he asked, before following Sherlock's horrified gaze to their poor landlady.

* * *

Ten minutes later John came downstairs, fully clothed and completely red in the face.

"I got the shopping," Mrs. Hudson offered weakly, clutching her tea.

"We've got to talk, Mrs. Hudson," John answered firmly, though his mortification was still apparent.

"I knocked this time!' she replied indignantly.

John looked floored.

"You...did?"

"Yes."

"...oh."

There was a lengthy pause, neither of them wanting to look the other in the eye.

"How about I ask Mrs. Turner how she deals with Eric and Dale?" Mrs. Hudson offered, patting John's hand reassuringly.

He looked for a second like he was about to protest, and even opened his mouth to do so, but resorted instead to a resigned sigh and reluctant nod.

_This is my life now_, she could see reflected in his eyes.

He turned to leave, but called over his shoulder.

"Thanks for the shopping."

"You're welcome dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, watching him go upstairs fondly.

She heard the door close to 221B and decided to leave them alone for the rest of the day.


End file.
